PS 3645 
.1637 R8 



1914 




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RURAL LIFE 



POEMS 



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By ROBERT BENSON WILSON 




Copyright 1Q14 

By 
Robert Benson Wilson 



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Rural Life Poems 




By REV. ROBERT BENSON WILSON 



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RURAL LIFE POEMS 




ni\e Farmer 



Dedicated to the sons of toil. 

Who bless the zvorld by tilling the soil. 

The farmer's a hustler, he hurries all day. 
He thinks there's little of time for play. 
For in summer he seeks to store away 

For the winter. 
He's always busy and does what he can, 
For the farmer, of course, is a business man, 
In winter he feeds and studies the plan, 

For the summer. 

The farmer's life is a merry routine 

As he tills the soil with brain and machine. 

With extras always, but time between 

For some leisure. 
He has drudgery, too, if he would complain, 
But this he forgets as he thinks of the gain 
Of reward and pleasures that remain 

For his labor. 

The farmer is happy, is nearest the sod, 
And this is in keep with the plan of God. 
Having chosen this wav is willing to plod 

For enjoyment. 
He lives close to nature, hears nature sing. 
The noise of cattle and birds on the wing. 
The fowls and flocks, most every thing. 

His music. 

The farmer's success with the world he divides, 
Has plenty for self and for others besides. 
And he of all men in the world provides 

Our prosperity. 
He is nearest of all to the source of supply — 
Tho' sometimes his merit and worth we deny, 
Yet, certain it is that on him we rely. 

For our bread. 



Page Four RURAL LIFE POEMS 



The farmer can't tell the cost of his keep, 

Since out from the cattle the swine and the sheep, 

He takes, what for others costs pretty steep, 

For his table. 
He eats of all the fruits of his land. 
Choosing- the best at his will and command, 
Leaving the rest to be pickled and canned 

For the city. 

The farmer's a close observes signs. 

He constantly watches the seasons and times. 

Mostly he's pleased, tho sometimes he whines 

At the weather. 
He looks for the sunshine the warmth and the rains, 
Since favorable conditions add much to his gains. 
He grumbles at taxes and often complains 

About crops. 

The farmer is freest from worry and care — 
No meter to measure the water and air — 
While with miodern comforts he can declare 

His freedom. 
He has home and family, flocks and lands, 
Things good to eat and plenty on hands, 
The country life and all that stands 

For the best. 

The farmer is worthy of honor and fame. 
Both city and hamlet think the same ; 
While kings from palaces still proclaim 

His merit. 
Say what you will, we think he's alright : 
Content in the country wath hopes all bright, 
The most independent in habit and right, 

The farmer. 



There is much of sorrow and care and grief, 
For which love alone can provide, 

But there's joy enough for the world's relief, 
If only we help to divide. 

Why wait till too late to brighten the way. 

Though only one flower we give? 
The burden of some one let's lighten today. 

Thus help one another to live. 



RURAL LIFE POEMS Page Five 



In Memoriam 

Dedicated to the Old Soldiers. 

Up from the South rose a cloud black as night, 
Aaid war was declared in defense of the right. 
This ominous cloud breaking over the land 
Poured out its contents on every hand. 

This not a war for possessions or fame. 
But one to remove the blight and the shame 
Of a people in bondage — a nation's wrong. 
Give help to the weak by those who were strong. 

This not a warfare and measured by might, 
But one in defense of principle and right — 
That a blood bought nation, the few cannot sever, 
But must be continued "the union forever." 

Hence a call came for men and quick the reply, 
For many were willing to dare and to die. 
That the stars and stripes may ever remain 
The flag of a free and united domain. 

Men left homes and sweethearts and wives. 

Pledging their all, if need be their lives. 

They followed this flag they loved so well. 

Though their sufferings in language no mortal can tell. 

Brave hearted womien took charge of affairs, 
The homes, the children and multiplied cares. 
Yes, brave, I say, in an unequal strife. 
To win, unaided, the battle of life. 

The good-bye kiss and the fond embrace — 
The look of hope on the tear-stained face 
Of mother, sweet-heart, children or wife, 
Gave courage and vim for the awful strife. 

Oh, that memorable day, when the women and men 
Bade a fond good-bye, ne'er to meet again. 
Fond hopes were crushed — they buried the braves. 
Side by side in the "unknown graves." 

In the midst of the fight men dared to be true. 
They faced the foe — were shot through and through. 
Human targets they were and today carry lead 
While others fell victims, are numbered as "dead." 



Page Six RURAL LIFE POEMS 



That a terrible war and at wonderful cost — 
Homes broken up, a million lives lost. 
But few of the vet'rans enfeebled remain 
To tell the sad story of losses and gain. 

At the shriek of the fife and beat of the drum 

These brave hearts respond — though their legs seem rumb. 

As long as these heroes are lingering near, 

The duty and privilege is ours to cheer. 

We honor the memory of those who fell 
For a country and flag they loved so well. 
What less can we do than place on their graves 
A flower, each year — thus honor the braves. 

And what shall we do for the heroes who live ? 
Is there nothing a nation and people can give? 
We pledge you our best — a place in each heart. 
And from the old flag we'll never depart. 

Yes, we'll stand by the flag — the red, white and blue. 

Esteeming the work and the worth of you. 

Yours a loyal service, a sacrifice share. 

We're glad to acknowledge, will always declare. 

As soldiers of Christ, will you stand by the cross 

As you stood by the flag though you suffered such loss? 

Enduring hardness for the sake of His love. 

Till He summons you, come to the ranks above? 

For many as yet have rejected His call, 

Hazzarding their hopes in heaven and all. 

Come when ye braves, ye noble sons 

Serve Him who helped when you stood by your guns. 

Stand up for Jesus, why falter why wait? 
His banner leads on through a wide open gate. 
Beyond which portal all war must cease, 
For all in the presence of God is peace. 



'Tis better to try and fail, 
Than fail to try. 
'Tis better to aim, then do, 
Than do, without an aim. 



RURAL LIFE POEMR Page Seven 



When Uncle Sam Dri\)es Out 

Uncle vSam has vast domains. 
He claims the mountains, hills and plains, 
And views with pride this nation, great, 
With watchful eye on real estate. 

He lives in the city or town, away. 
And drives to the country 'most ev'ry day. 
His steed isn't fat, but is tried and true. 
And the rig wasn't built at all, for two. 

In rain or sunshine, storm or gale, 

The country folks get U. S. mail ; 

For Uncle Sam is sure to go. 

Though he wade the mud and drifted snow. 

The people watch, up road or lane, 
Through open door and window pane ; 
For "Mail time" marks a round each day. 
As he comes and goes without display. 

He knows the people on the route, 
Takes them the news when driving out. 
He gathers mail for the world at large 
And does it all with modest charge. 

That city needs and farm supplies 
Are brought in touch, no one denies. 
Since Uncle Sam has worked and planned. 
The busiest man in all the land. 

The farmer, now, by sweat and toil 
Can gather breadstuff from the soil. 
And send by means of parcels post. 
Direct, to where 'tis needed most. 

With catalog and guarantee. 
From Shears, Hoebuck and Company, 
The country orders, in Uncles' care. 
And pays the cash for city ware. 

'Tis dreadful hard on the "Middle man," 
And we don't know how to help him plan, 
Unless, a change we can induce 
By turning hands to help produce. 

Thus Uncle Sam drives out and back. 
With steady gait and winding track. 
He brings the world to distant farm. 
To rural life, gives added charm. 



Page Eight RURAL LIFE POEMS 



Mother 

For Her Birthday Anniversary. 

Mother is seventy years today: 
Though her face is bright her hair is gray. 
She loves us more than tongue can tell 
And we love her, yes, wondrous well 
For she is mother. 

Mother is young, except in deeds : 
She raised her family — furnished needs. 
But others share in her affections. 
Seek her joys and her perfections — 
For she is grandmother. 

Mother, like other mothers do. 
Keeps a family record, too. 
She has children's children — then one. 
For the fourth generation is now begun — 
Aind she is great-grandmother. 

Mother is young — three score and ten. 
According to wisdom's sacred pen, 
She knows of sorrow and many a care, 
For loved ones here — four over there — 
Still she is mother. 

Mother seventy? I'm surprised! 
It don't seem long since we first realized 
Her loving look and fond embrace. 
Which time from memory can never efface. 
She is our mother. 

Mother looks back through seven decades. 
God has blessed her and still He aids. 
Looks forward — heaven's not so far. 
Two decades, maybe, to the gates ajar, 
That knowing and loving, one of her boys 
May share other cares and add to her joys: 

For I have been helped, encouraged and blessed ^K 

By my mother's prayers — I think them best, ^^ 

For she is my mother. 

Take comfort in this, my friend — 
Our God understands His plan. 
He has spared you again and again, 
On Him you can surely depend, 
While helping as only you can. 
To lift on the burdens of men. 



RURAL LIFE POEMS Page Nine 



ni\e Men on WKeels 

For every traveler on the road. 

Who for his safety cares. 
Let me suggest the following. 

As one of many prayers. 

God bless the faithful motor man, 

Who couples up the power. 
He turns it on and turns it off. 

And watches by the hour. 

He keeps his eye upon the rail, 

And looks for every curve. 
His work is very strenuous. 

At tension, every nerve. 

For human life depends upon 

The turn of either hand. 
And grave responsibility 

His powers and strength demand. 

Yes, bless the other fellow, too — 
The man who takes the fares. 

Who punches tickets, takes the cash, 
And for the people cares. 

He answers questions not a few. 

Such as the people ask. 
He makes the change and call sthe stops— 

His not an easy task. 

These noble men, who serve so well, 

The people on the go, 
Deserve consideration. 

Which people ought to show. 

Henceforth, we'll try to prize your worth, 
Tho we failed in former days. 

Please, now, accept apologies. 
And these our word bouquets. 




Page Ten RURAL LIFE POEMS 

ni\e Presidential CKair 

A Tribute to the First Wilson President 

In Washington with glory crowned, 

There's a Presidential Chair; 
'Tis big and high and far renowned — 

And the people put it there. 

The man that fills this lofty place 

Is greater than a king. 
Of thrones and crowns there's not a trace — 

"My country/' the people sing. 

Of all the men for fame intent, 

Since the days of Washington; 
With many names for President, 

We welcome now — WILSON. 

(Sometime Jones and Smith may win — 
This word will encourage, no doubt, 

A chance for one of them to get in. 
If ever the Wilsons get out.) 

As President, to our God be true, 
And the people's weal remember, 

All eyes are turning now to you, 
And have been since November. 

We'll follow in your rightful lead — 

Let wisdom blaze the way 
For righteousness, a nation's need. 

Exalting with her sway. 

So pilot well the Ship of State, 

With strong and steady nerve. 
This nation's not controlled by fate, 

Our highest good conserve. 

We are mindful, too, of many cares. 

Your tasks are not easy at all. 
The problems of men and the nation's affairs, 

For greatest ability call. 

There are many men who for self contend ; 

For greed, they graft and spoil. 
There are corporations which depend 

For life, on others toil. 



RURAL LIFE POEMS Page Eleven 



So, vou might do well to keep nearby 
"Steam Rollers" and "Big Sticks," 

Since "Special Interests" underlie 
Their avaricious tricks. 

Yes, roll them out so thin and flat 

They'll ne'er get up again. 
The ways of crookedness combat; 

Give place to upright men. 

With Uncle Sam, play well your part, 
With the people deal on the square. 

Keep your place in the nation's eye and heart, 
And continue in the Chair. 



niie Toledo Mosquito 

One time a visitor lodging in Toledo, 
Was sought and approached by a mister mosquito. 
He came unannounced in his flying machine 
At the dawn of the day, so as not to be seen. 
And naught was known of his presence near. 
Till the whiz of the motor had reached my ear. 
He soon n-uade a landing, in itself quite unique. 
And settled himself on the round of my cheek. 
He surely had come with determined will, 
To puncture my derm with his tempered drill. 
And feast on the flow of blood for his gain. 
Before making ascent in his aeroplane. 
By this time the sleeper was wide awake. 
Studiously planning what vengeance to take, 
On the "skeeter" that made the untimely attack. 
A blow was stricken — an awful whack. 
The result you might guess, if left to you. 
My temper had risen— the "skeeter" had, too. 




Page Twelve RURAL LIFE POEMS 



ni\e Coming Reckoning 

For half a century we've labored and prayed, 

'Gainst the open saloon and the liquor trade. 

Of importunity there's been no lack, 

As we've noted the trail and broad'ning track, 

Of a traffic that's known to all so well 

As thriving on earth tho born in hell. 

Like a mammoth monster or octopus, 
It has fastened itself upon all of us. 
We fear its clutch, its sting, and its bite, 
Its withering touch and certain blight 
The insatiate greed and graft and lust, 
That's fixed on us by the liquor trust. 

For years and years w^e've tried in vain. 
To stop its march and constant gam. 
By passing laws throughout the state. 
To curb its power and regulate. 
But, like rolling snow-balls down the hill. 
The cursed thing grows bigger still. 

For this deadliest foe to home and state, 

A plan is on foot to annihilate. 

We're tired of schemes and tricks and planks. 

Of politicians and liquor cranks, 

W^hich were never intended for use again 

Save to blind the eyes of a citizen. 

We demand that the curse shall be put away. 

Too long we've suffered its deadly sway. 

Arise then, ye men with ballot in hand — 

For it's ballots, or bullets and blood in the land— 

And pray with wide-open eyes that at least 

Your ballot go straight to the heart of the beast. 

As sure as there's a God in heaven on high 
The end of this curse is drawing nigh. 
For He who rules in the world's affairs. 
Will take a part and show that He cares 
For lives enthralled, for homes once bright. 
Now turned by rum to the darkest night. 

We've had sorrows enough and oceans of tears. 
The result of this evil continued for years. 
A Lincoln is born to emancipate all. 
The slaves must be free, the shackles must fall, 
Ere this quarter century into hist'ry has past, 
And long expected freedom has come to us at last. 



RURAL LIFE POEMS Page Hlxirteen 



Oh, the joy of that new day when Hquor can't be made; 
When brewery and still shall be turned to honest trade. 
When the wasted lives and grain shall be put to proper use, 
And mothers, wives, and children shall no longer know abuse 
When at head of home and state throughout this goodly land, 
A husband, father, statesman — a sober man shall stand. 



Do It Now 

When a task is once begun 
Do not weary ere 'tis done. 
In this busy world of ours. 
Tasks do only test our powers. 
Use the talent God you gave. 
He'll reward the true and brave. 

Do not linger do not stay 
Move obstructions from the way. 
Onward, upward, never stop. 
There is room still at the top. 
Let your watchword "higher" be, 
There success awaiteth thee. 



Page Fourteen RURAL LIFE POEMS 



niie Old Grindstone 

I remember, oh., so well^ 

Where the grindstone used to stand. 
If its story it could tell. 

It would peal throughout the land. 

Methinks I see it now. 

Just as it used to be. 
Beneath the spreading bough. 

Of that dear old apple-tree. 

Yes, there's the very spot, 
And I hear the calling tone 

Of father from the lot, 

"Come, turn the old grindstone.'' 

I can almost feel the ache. 

As I turned and turned away, 
Till I thought my back would break. 

But it's good and strong today. 

The scythe seemed all too long, 
And the ax was always blunt. 

And father's "hold on" strong. 

When we did that old-time stunt. 

Then came the section-bar. 

Each year it longer grew, 
The dullest thing by far, 

Except a knife or two. 

Oh, the noon hours that we spent ! — 
The time for harvest rest — 

"A workin' ", while we bent 
Our backs to meet the test. 

But times have changed we find. 
And the grinding is all fun. 

For a man can sit and grind. 
And think of a bicycle run. 

The grindstone is now a machine. 
With belt and wheels running fast. 

'Tis turned by gasolene 

And the backache is all past. 

But remember, the old grindstone 
Gave endurance to brawn and brain. 

Also vim and needed backbone, 
To the boy who felt its strain. 



RURAL LIFE POEMS Page Fifteen 



But the boy of today seeks the "g^ym' 
To keep his system in tone. 

A substitute — so pleasing- to him. 
For turning the old grindstone. 



May country folks know. 
That it is best not to go 

To the city to labor for bread. 
For some must abide 
With the fields, rich and wide. 

Where God recommends sweat and toil. 
Who now takes a place 
In the rural life race. 

In a decade he'll be far ahead ; 
For man must depend 
From beginning to end^ 

On the products of labor and soil. 



T.ftt S"? 



^H II 1914 



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